


Under a Waning Moon

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Bellatrix Lestrange - character, Death, Death Eaters, Gen, Murder, Torture, first wizarding war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a night during the First War, Bellatrix examines her work with pride as she waits for the Dark Lord to arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Waning Moon

What she wants to hear is their screams. The screech of spells whipping across the sky, flying around a room - it's a glorious sound to her, but it isn't what she seeks. It isn't what she needs. She needs to hear their terror and their fear, needs to hear that they know - they _know_ that she is there. She needs their horror filling the night as the stars turn green and their blood turns cold. When they scream, Bellatrix laughs. She tosses her wild black hair and drums her feet on the ground and she exults, arms raised in triumph.

She can taste blood in the night air, taste iron and copper and fear. She struts toward the small cottage where another victim waits. A mewling, pathetic Mudblood who thinks that he has hidden from the Dark Lord. Who thinks that he has survived to continue his defiance. He is wrong. Bella slips her wand and caresses it, brushes the tip across her mouth and smiles as she approaches the cottage. No one can defy her master, no one can survive his vengeance. They will take another victory, will claim another life. They will cleanse their world of this filth.

Bellatrix watches the house burn, yellow and red flames jumping higher than the trees, licking at the sky. She stands so close to the fire that sparks dance around her feet. Sparks hit her arms as she stretches them to the heat. Each sting of pain reminds her of their purpose, of their reason for their fight. The flames can help them to rid their world of the Mudbloods and fools who weaken magic and power. It is pain, but the pain is short, and when the fire has burned to ash, they will find a new and purified beginning.

With shrieks and tears, the traitors run, fleeing into the shadows that spread across the moor. The others, her brothers in service, give chase, voices reaching the moon like werewolf howls. Bellatrix watches. She waits. She tracks the screams as they roll across the night. Eyes closed, she lifts her wand and allows her purpose to guide her hand. With the power of the Dark Lord behind her, with the mark of his trust in her arm, she knows that she cannot fail. Another kill for victory. Her arm moves, her hands tightens on her wand, and she takes aim.

She sees the hot jealousy in the eyes of the others, sees their envy and their twisting, vicious gall as she lifts her sleeve to call the Dark Lord. Bellatrix lifts her chin and she smiles, her teeth scraping across her lip. She stares them down, and one by one they each turn away. They drop their heads and hunch their shoulders, only proving again and again that no one - _no one_ \- but she deserves to be in this place. She has served their master with loyalty and passion, and she is the only one who has earned his trust.

It has always been her destiny to be here, to be this woman, full of power and the singing fire of dark magic. She is Bellatrix Black, and her blood is pure like no other. This is why she was born, the purpose for which she was made. Every drop of her blood and ounce of her soul is made for this battle. It is her quest and her crusade. Under the green and grinning skull that dominates the sky, the banner that proclaims her master's rule, Bellatrix stands tall. This is her life, and she will make it victorious.

A body is at her feet, limbs sprawled and pale under the sickly light of the waning moon. Bellatrix prods it - and it is nothing more than _it_ , less than human, less than an animal, not even worthy of a name - with her toe. Its mouth falls open and a stream of blood, dark and thick, slips to the ground beneath it. The dirt is already wet and sticking, turned to mud by the filthy, tainted blood that has soaked into it. Into the mud is the only fitting place for it. It is where it belongs, worthless and forgotten.

She waits for her master's arrival. Her sleeve is pushed to her elbow, the white skin of her forearm glowing in the light of their mark in the sky. Bellatrix traces one nail around the matching mark in her skin, around the sinuous twists of the snake and the curving lines of the skull. It is the mark of her service, the mark of her loyalty. Many believe they are fit to take up the Dark Lord's cause, but few are truly chosen. Few bear this brand, this mark in their skin. None bear it with the pride Bellatrix feels.

It takes a true passion to be a true believer. It requires a heat in the blood and a fire in the soul, one that will burn no matter the obstacles. Bellatrix knows she has that fire. The Dark Lord saw it in her, saw the pure flame that burns within her. That is why she stands by his side, why she and she alone is trusted to carry out his most sensitive orders. She is the one who understands his needs and his drive, the only one who shares it, burning inside her. Burning the world to cleanse it.

She feels the air change as _he_ arrives, and she dances through the smoke from the cottage, spins it around her like silk. Before her lord, her master, she stands with pride in the set of her shoulders and glory in the curl of her lips. The Dark Lord does not speak yet, only examines the building engulfed in flames, the corpses spread across the moor. He turns one over with a flick of his wand, and there - _there_ \- is his smile. Bella's heart fills with pride and satisfaction. Once again, she has served her master well. He is pleased.


End file.
